


Kind Creatures

by Isolee



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Original Aliens - Freeform, Schizophrenia, The TARDIS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isolee/pseuds/Isolee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders about people who drive their cars in the middle of the night outside her apartment, who walk past her on improbable sidewalks in strange places. She wonders if perhaps they have no cause to run but the impending sleep in stagnation, but the voice of sense tells her they're going somewhere just as she, even though she will add that no one really knows where that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kind Creatures

We all have voices in our heads. One is our own - sometimes in conflict with itself but invariably, consistently ours. Some are our mother's, father's, sibling's. If you are lucky, it's the kindness of a friend and not the terrorising of the bully who always tore you down when you were nine and didn't know what to think. We speak to ourselves to calm down, to brave the jump or to stop the run. Sometimes that's all we need.

But then there are some yet that belong not to us, not to them, but something entirely different. 

The first time she thought he saw him was on a London street at midday. They almost run into each other and share a glance; she nods for some reason - she's okay, it's fine - and he dashes into the crowd. She often wonders about people running, about people who drive their cars in the middle of the night outside her apartment, who walk past her on improbable sidewalks in strange places. She wonders if perhaps they have no cause to run but the impending sleep in stagnation, but the voice of reason in her head says that's silly. The voice of sense tells her they're going somewhere just as she, even though she will add that no one really knows where that is. 

Later that week, as she considers a book in the shop, something in the corner of her eye makes her look up. So does he, and they stare for one, two, three seconds before someone passes between them and the moment is thrown out from under them like a rug. He is handsome in a curious way - in the way that a person can seem interesting and searching, all the while they're thinking about dinner. That's a misanthropic thought, but she adds in spite: can't you just see how they're waiting for their chance to speak when you have barely opened your mouth?

She pushes out of the shop with more force than strictly necessary, but no one pays her any mind.

The next time is highly improbable. 

_Doctor Anna Watson is hereby invited to Stockholm for the excavation of the Graves of Sigriᵭ in Broby Bro_

No expense is spared over the piece of quality paper that arrives through the slot in her front door. She flies over, scared to bits, gripping her seat with hands that are white and a heart that flutters as if it is forgetting its purpose. This fear is illogical, but you must accept it, experience tells her. If you can let the anxiety roll into your, you can let it roll over you. You are a rock, and there is a wave coming, it says. You will still be a rock when the wave is gone. You are a tree with deep roots, memory whispers. The storm cannot hurt you.

Visibly she relaxes, but there is no one around to notice. 

He stands by the lined perimeter as if he excavates thousand-year old tombs regularly, with a Stetson that is just too much and inexorably befitting at the same time. When they notice each other this time, there is no denying that they both feel uncomfortable, and perhaps intrigued - probably a mixture of both, with a touch of fearful amazement, for surely there can be no coincidence like this. 

The voices are confused, and she doesn't know what to believe. She keeps to the back of the crowd, attends the open lab and gives a short statement that most raise no objection to, nor any definite approval. 

In her hotel room alone, she asks herself if this is the final stage, when he appears as if from thin air as she exits the bathroom. 

'Hello', he says, and he looks as if he is pleasantly surprised to happen upon her in her own rooms.  
  
'Yes,' says she, and the view from the window is lit by traffic lights, windows, ads, like the stars of modern society. They're on the fifteenth floor, above the black water. There is no way she will survive the fall and it calms her. The voices are concerned.  
  
'I see.' He doesn't look like he sees anything, but there is a flash of genuine concern. 'Who are you?'  
  
'This is new,' she must admit then. 'But then, you are the first I can actually see.' All the more worrying is the fact that neither sense nor reason find this situation especially safe. But then, she is contemplating jumping out of a window.  
  
'Sorry,' he says, 'What?'  
  
'It's evolving. I thought it would.' She nods. 'I should probably end it here.'  
  
'Sorry,' he says again, now visibly alarmed. 'What is?'  
  
'I'm schizophrenic.' His eyes go round and Anna allows him that. It's not his fault, after all, despite being a projection. Cynicism rolls its eyes. 'And you must be the last stage.'  
  
'Tell you what,' he rushes, holding up two index fingers in the air like stop marks. 'How about we both sit down and you tell me all about it before you do anything irreversible?'  
  
Will he be able to stop her? Is this the part of her brain that self-preserves? If so, it kicked in a little late, she thinks. 'I'd rather stand.'  
  
'Okay, fine, I can roll with that.' He sits down on the sofa across from her, folds his legs under himself, schools his face into one of interest rather than alarm, and _waves_ at her. 'Hello, I'm the Doctor.'  
  
She laughs before she can stop herself, because that really is extraordinary. 'The Doctor?' she asks. 'Have you come to fix me then?'  
  
'Not intentionally, no.'  
  
'So you're as useless as me.' She leans her back against the window, feels the thick glass chill her. 'I'm doctor Anna Watson, archaeologist.'  
  
The Doctor rolls his eyes and mutters, 'Of course, an archaeologist.' The next instant he beams. 'Doctor Watson!' he exclaims. 'That's brilliant!'  
  
'Thank you,' she accepts.  
  
'Now, what is this about endings? Because I rather dislike endings, hate them, really, should think about abolishing them, actually, when I find the time - well, I say find, but you know, busy life.'  
  
'Schizophrenia can be really dangerous to the people around you,' she says, but she smiles.  
  
'But you are not dangerous,' he says quite calmly, as if he knows this to be a truth. 'How can you be? You are completely alone.'  
  
She open her mouth to say something, but cannot think of anything. The voices are terrifyingly quiet.  
  
'You are lonely. Yes, so lonely in fact that the TARDIS homed in on your loneliness and lead me straight back to you again and again. You see, I know loneliness, and I've been around a long time, so I also know a bit or two about danger and lonely, and let me tell you -' he pauses, leans forward. 'I don't think you're dangerous to anyone but yourself.'  
  
She is stunned. 'You are quite different from the others.'  
  
'That's because I'm not a voice - well, I am, but aren't we all, no, what I mean is, I don't think that you are schizophrenic.'  
  
'That's what you would say.' Strangely, this calms her.  
  
'Tell me, have the voices fooled you before?'  
  
'Not that I know.'  
  
'And what are they telling you now?'  
She says nothing.  
  
'Okay,' he says, gets up. 'I will fix you.'  
  
'I'm not broken,' she blurts - snaps, really - and he stops.  
  
'No, you're not,' he says gently. 'But there is more to you - all of you - than you think.'

The Doctor lives in a blue box that even her wildest dreams could not have imagined - she hopes, fervently - and when she steps inside, the voices are cacophony of feelings and she has no idea what _she_ feels. 

'I'm going to put a thingy over here,' the Doctor warns. 'Don't be afraid.'  
  
'I'm always afraid,' she says, but the voices are not, and she stands with her hands around the iron railing. The Doctor blinks, and when he speaks he sounds sympathetic.  
'I know.'  
  
Something hums, and the inside of her mind tickles. Then slowly, like little fairy lights, something comes floating out of her, golden like dreams, fireflies, but light and hesitant. She gathers them in her palm, gasps at their familiar weightlessness, the feelings that come pouring out of them.  
  
'They are the Caillie.'  
  
The Doctor stands beside her suddenly.  
  
'They're empathic creatures from the Worlds Upon Shironee, native to the fourth planet from the centre sun. A long way from home.' He extends a gentle finger to one of the golden lights. It appears to nuzzles him.  
  
'My guess is that they were thrown out in space by accident and travelled to Earth in the vacuum of space. They were probably very lonely. Just like you. That's how they found you; like the TARDIS, they homed in on your loneliness and came to soothe it. They're very kind creatures.'  
  
She's aware that she is crying, but does not stop. The Caillie are beautiful in her palm, but she knows what's to be done.  
  
'Can you return them?' she asks, and the mixture of hope and sadness from the Caillie almost break her heart. Her head is terrifyingly quiet.  
  
'You do understand what that means?' the Doctor asks, but she smiles at him.  
  
'It is a special kind of loneliness not to be with those who know who you are.'  
  
'It is.' He looks at her long enough that she has to glance up at him in question.  
  
'Would you like to come?'  
  
She stares. 'Yes.'  
  
'Are you scared?'  
  
'Yes.'  
  
'Don't be.' He turns to the Caillie in her palm. 'I'll take care of her for you. Now, come along, doctor Watson. We're going on an adventure!'


End file.
